KILL CAFFREY
by Lacadiva
Summary: An undercover assignment goes bad, and the only way out for Peter could mean tragedy for Neal. Friendship, crime drama.
1. Chapter 1

9

**KILL CAFFREY**

by

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, but to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. But ooh, it's fun to pretend.

_Summary: An undercover assignment goes horribly wrong, and the only way out for Peter could mean tragedy for Neal. An idea while I was in Melbourne last year…wrote a page or two then and decided see if I could finish it day or two ago. Note: I know Peter would never do what he does in this story; it was just an idea to play with. Indulge._

Neal knew he wasn't supposed to be here. Peter had ordered him, made it more than clear to him to remain at headquarters and out of harm's way, but Neal was never one for following orders.

Peter moved frantically through the warehouse, searching the semi-dark, dank space, checking behind crates and peering into shadowed corners that exuded dust and radiated cold, but revealed no sign of immediate danger to his partner and friend.

"Neal!" cried Peter, "you can come out now."

Neal came swift-footed and silent from behind a wooded pallet stacked high with flattened refrigerator boxes. His eyes were wide and hyper alert. Even in the darkness, Peter could see that his partner was nervous about the operation. That made two of them.

"What did I tell you?" Peter whispered harshly. "I told you to stay put. I told you…!"

"You sent me a text…!"

"What? No, I never sent a text..."

"…you…or someone said to meet you here."

"It wasn't me. You have to get out, right now."

"Why? What's happening?"

"Your girlfriend set you up."

"I told you," Neal said, genuinely miffed, "she's not my girlfriend. Francesca Delacroix is a liar and a violent psychotic in a white leather dress. Did I mention she's a liar? But she is not my girlfriend…"

Peter exhaled harshly a rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Your psychotic in white leather just put a contract out on you! Guess who's got the job?"

Neal was uncharacteristically speechless, which would have been amusing to Peter if their circumstances had not been so dire. Not only was Neal in danger, but it had also come to light that anyone who considered themselves friends of Neal were in jeopardy as well. The hit list unfortunately include Mozzie and Alex Hunter. Even June suspected she was being followed on two separate occasions.

"She's testing you, Peter, auditioning you for the job. She wants to see if you're worth the hype."

"Yeah," the agent said, perturbed, "I got that. They confiscated my phone when I first made contact with her. Someone must have sent the text then."

"When are you supposed to deliver the goods?"

"You mean kill you? _Now_. Why do you think you're here?"

This was the part of going undercover that Peter hated most; the part when things went south, the plan became unglued and a quick fix seemed as far from possible as anyone could get.

Peter continued, "She's on her way."

"She wants to watch, doesn't she?" Neal said, feeling a cold shiver work its way down his spine.

Peter nodded. "Said she wanted a front row seat when it went down."

"Good old Francesca. She always liked to micro-manage her hits."

Neal gestured to Peter to follow him to a small office just behind a door marked "private," with a smoked glass and chicken wire window. Neal pulled what looked to be a twisted paper clip from his shirt cuff and deftly picked the lock in seconds flat. He opened the door, allowing Peter to enter first.

The agent swept the room with his gun. "Clear," he whispered, and Neal quickly joined him, closing the door behind him.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't see you do that," said Peter.

"Nice outfit," Neal said quickly, momentarily distracted and amused that Peter's typical conservative gray FBI-sanctioned suit had been substituted for black jeans, black tee shirt and a black leather jacket.

"It's what all the hit men are wearing. Neal…we're running out of time. You need to get out of here before she arrives."

"If I know Francesca, she's already got the place under surveillance. If either of us tries to leave, we'll be picked off like fish in a barrel."

"You suppose it's acceptable if you're dead when she arrives?" Peter asked, his irritation pushing through to the surface of his composure.

"How are we going to pull that off?" Neal asked.

"I'm open for suggestions!" Peter checked the door. No signed of Delacroix or her men, at least not yet.

"Peter, I know Delacroix. If she wants someone dead, she won't be satisfied unless there's a body. If there's no body…"

"We're both dead. I got the picture, Neal. I wasn't expecting Delacroix to give me you as my first contract. We need a way out. How about this: Just as she's coming through the door, I fire a shot, and you play possum. We convince Delacroix the hit's been carried out, you're terminated, and as soon as she leaves..."

"There's a slight hiccup in your game plan," Neal said, and swallowed hard. "I know her, remember? Believe me, she won't take your word for it. She's going to want to see blood. My blood."

"How is it you inspire such wrath in women, Neal?"

"Wrath is not that far from love, Peter. Not for her."

Neal winced as he recalled his last meeting with the fatally beautiful Francesca Delacroix, notorious counterfeiter, bond forger, convicted arsonist and alleged domestic terrorist. She rarely relied on the talents of others for a scam or a job, but whenever she did 'outsource,' her front men often ended up too dead to testify against her.

Neal Caffrey was the one that got away.

They'd met long before Kate came into the picture, when Neal was still young and green and foolish enough to believe he could trust another con artist. Especially one as dangerously alluring and exciting as Francesca. The forgeries he had done for her were flawless, netting her one huge payday after another. She seemed sincerely grateful and appropriately generous, not to mention taken by Neal's extreme charm and good looks. The two of them end up taking their relationship to a level Neal had not anticipated. It lasted just short of two weeks – thirteen whirlwind days of first class trips to remote tropical islands, expensive wines, and sultry evenings dancing until glorious dawn.

On the fourteenth day, Neal left her without a ticket home, no passport, and with an empty hotel safe that had once been stuffed with cash – dollars and Euros – and a velvet pouch filled with a half dozen perfect diamonds. He left her with a terse note explaining why things could never truly work between them – neither of them could ever be trusted.

She sent her men searching throughout their entire forger network to find Neal. The word went out on the street – Neal Caffrey was persona non grata. Give him no shelter, no protection, or risk the same fate that awaited him.

When her men did finally find Neal, they beat him brutally, mercilessly, and dragged him to her favorite Italian restaurant, which she conveniently arranged to have closed to the public for the night. While she sipped excellent wine and savored linguine with clams prepared especially for her, Neal stood silently bleeding in the middle of the floor. She gave her men orders to shoot Neal if he passed out before she finished her meal. He fought to stay conscious and remain standing despite the dizziness that threatened to send him to the floor. When finally Francesca had dabbed her perfect lips clean and tossed her fine linen napkin onto her plate, she looked up at Neal and smiled. From her lap, she held up a gun, checked the clip, then laid it on the table by her plate.

"You have 30 seconds to convince me not to shoot you," she spoke for the first time. No matter what Neal could manage to say, he knew he couldn't talk himself out of this. It seemed his luck had finally run out. He offered to return everything he had stolen from her, and throw in a stolen Raphael as a gesture of good faith.

She stood, picked up the gun and took a few emphatically seductive steps toward Neal. No one could walk like Francesca. She placed the gun just under his chin. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because," Neal said, both frightened and excited by the woman who stood before him, "I have nothing left but the truth. You won, Francesca. I've got no place to run."

She smiled, and let the cold metal of the gun linger against Neal's sweating, bleeding face to communicate her divided mind. Kiss him or kill him? Both would bring her great pleasure.

She signaled for her men to follow her out. "You've got twelve hours, Caffrey," she said. "Twelve hours to return what is mine, or I will have my men de-bone you like a fish."

He never returned her stolen goods (he had long ago fenced the diamonds and spent the cash), but instead gave her something far more valuable – bearer bonds, to the tune of thirteen million dollars. A million, Neal said in another terse hand written note to Francesca, for each idyllic day they spent in paradise.

Francesca was for the moment appeased and left Neal alone for a couple years. Until she tried to move the bonds to pay off an old debt, and found out at the very last minute they had been beautiful, flawlessly forged.

By Neal.

It was mere coincidence, pure serendipity that the Bureau had Neal in their pocket and chose to use him to lure Francesca Delacroix into the Feds' hands and drag her to justice. It was proving, however, to be a most difficult case to crack.

Peter shook his head. "We're wasting time. We need a plan."

The entire operation depended up on his convincing Delacroix that he was a formidable hit man. The intention was that Peter would be allowed into her tightly woven family of crooks and thieves and killers, and be given a front row seat to her theatre of operations.

"If it weren't for your girlfriend's rabid paranoia…"

"I wish you'd stop calling her my girlfriend…"

"…we could have arranged some kind of special effects fakery to fool her into believing you were dead."

"That stuff never works," Neal lamented. "The blood's never the right shade or consistency…"

"Okay, then, Mr. Spielberg, you got any suggestions?"

"At the moment, no."

"Then we're gonna have to fake it, Neal. Fake it till we make it. Get on the floor."

"No!" Neal said firmly, if nervously. He began to pace, working out the plan, structuring the con that would hopefully save their lives.

"If Francesca's not satisfied…if she so much as suspects…your cover is blown and she'll put a bullet between your eyes and mine without a thought. And if we did manage to walk out of here alive, we'll both have bull's eyes on our backs the rest of our lives. We need think of something radical or she'll be back on the street making mayhem, and we'll be wearing matching toe tags and lying on parallel slabs in the morgue. I pissed her off once. No one does it to her twice, Peter. You've got to get on the inside and bust her operation. My death is your only way in. We have to convince her. _It has to be the real deal."_

"_What are you saying, Neal_?" Peter felt the blood rushing from his brain, making him a bit dizzy.

Neal looked around the room, hoping for some other inspiration, some other idea that would spark his devious and clever imagination and get them out of their fix. But he saw nothing he could exploit. He knew it was his craziest idea ever – but it had to work.

He also knew he had to be all in for this mission. Some of his greatest cons were built on taking great risks and making sacrifices that could easily result in death if the plan fell apart. Every great artist knows that sometimes, blood may be required. Delacroix needed to be stopped. Not only was Neal in danger, but his friends were dying, all at Delacroix's command. He thought of Mozzie, Alex and June. Even Elizabeth, and how she stood to lose Peter if the operation should tank. So much was at stake. The situation called for a sacrifice. He wanted to say this, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Neal, what are you saying?" the agent repeated.

"I know you're not going to like this, Peter. For the record, I don't like it much myself, but…you're gonna have to shoot me."

"What? No! No way, Neal! Forget it!"

"Peter, listen! It's the only way." Neal took a jagged breath, and stepped back. He removed jacket, folded it inside out before tossing it to the floor. He loosened his tie with trembling fingers.

"What are you doing? Stop!" Peter insisted.

Peter noticed that he was holding his breath. His C.I. had come up with some crazy ideas before, but this one made no sense to him at all.

"You have to shoot me, Peter…"

"I am NOT going to SHOOT YOU!"

"Just wing me!"

"Wing you? What does that mean?"

"Like in the movies."

"This isn't the movies, Neal!"

"I'm acutely aware of that, Peter. But we're running out of options. Just…hit me right about…here," he said, punching his left shoulder with a finger, "below the bone. It's all flesh. No vital organs, no arteries. It'll bleed a lot but I won't die. Probably. If you get me to a hospital in a reasonable amount of time…"

"How do you know this?"

"I've studied Grey's Anatomy. The medical book, not the t.v. show. Now, quit stalling and shoot me!"

"I'm not going to shoot you, Neal!"

"_And I don't want to be shot_! But we're..."

They heard voices, not far away, just outside.

"…we're running out of time," he finished quickly.

Peter ran a hand through his hair again, his exasperation building to the tipping point. "Of all the stupid, hare-brained schemes…"

"Do you have a better idea? Because if you do, believe me, I'd really like to hear it!"

Peter thought. And thought. He let out a harsh, uneven breath. "This goes beyond insane."

"Look, you need them to believe you are who you say you are," Neal said. "You need them to let you in. This is the only way. We gotta pay to play."

"I won't pay or play with your life."

Delacroix's men were closer – searching the warehouse for them. Peter chewed his lower lip, thinking, thinking. Anything but this…anything.

Neal was breathing as if he was having some difficulty. Adrenaline fueled by excitement and abject fear was coursing through is veins. His hands were beginning to tremble, his finger tips tingling. His eyes were turning red as involuntary tears were threatening to pour, the salty stuff burning at the back of his head. The moment was as exhilarating as it was debilitating.

"One shot, Peter," Neal said shakily, "one shot and you've got blood and a body and a ticket inside. Just promise me, you won't blow this case, won't let her walk on some legal technicality. You bring down the full wrath of the Bureau on her, Peter. Because if we fail and she walks, we die, my friends die, and Elizabeth will have way too many funerals to attend. And it won't stop there."

Peter knew he was right…but he also knew his partner was quite probably insane. Time was running out. He could hear Francesca now, her melodious voice and the clack of her exorbitantly priced, ultra high heels on concrete, getting closer.

Neal held his arm out parallel to the floor to provide Peter an easy target. He sucked in a lungful of air to hopefully steady himself but still felt his body shake in anticipation of the pain he knew would come. He shook his head, encouraging Peter to follow through.

Peter had a memory – something Neal had said not quite two years ago came rushing back to haunt the agent:

"_Life comes down to a few moments. This is one of them." _

Indeed it was. Peter lifted his gun, aimed, steadying his hand. But his finger only lingered near the trigger.

"Neal…I can't…"

"Yeah, you can. You can do it, Butch."

Peter wanted to laugh, not just at the Butch and Sundance reference, but at the absurdity of the moment.

He tried to fire again. Again, he hesitated, unable to commit to pulling the trigger, hurting or possibly killing his friend.

"What if I'm off?" he asked, nearly out of breath. "What if you bleed out before I can get help to you?"

"I won't," Neal said, almost calmly, though not quite convincingly.

"How do you know?"

"Because… because I trust you."

That was convincing. Neal's voice was so steady that Peter believed for a moment that this perilous scheme could actually work, that they could truly pull this off.

"I won't let you die," Peter said, as much for himself as for his C.I.

"I know," said Neal, and shook his head. "Do it."

Peter held the gun stead and aimed again. Training took over now. He knew, just as Neal did, where to shoot to do the least amount of damage but create the maximum effect. He knew Neal would bleed profusely and would be in great agony. But he also knew he would heal…

He heard Delacroix's voice and the sound of her small army drawing near to the office. He knew they'd be armed to the teeth, and that if they found Neal alive and breathing, neither one of them would leave the warehouse outside of a body bag.

Peter pulled the trigger.

End Chapter One!

_Hey! Thanks for your very kind attention, everyone. Just a quick story to end the year on a White Collar note, and to say HAPPY NEW YEAR! Review, please, if you're moved to, and thanks for all your wonderful and positive comments about my other stories, "Save Me If You Can" and "Find Me If You Can." Look for chapter 12 of "Save Me" On December 30__th__ and a new chapter of "Find Me" shortly after the New Year. Have a wonderful 2012._


	2. Chapter 2

**KILL CAFFREY**

By

Lacadiva

Rating : PG-13

_Disclaimer: See chapter one. Go Jeff Eastin, go! January 17__th__ is right around the corner! Yippee!_

**From Chapter 1:**

"_I'm not going to shoot you, Neal!"_

"…_we're running out of time." _

"_Of all the stupid, hare-brained schemes…"_

"_This is the only way. We gotta pay to play."_

"_I won't pay or play with your life."_

"_Life comes down to a few moments. This is one of them." _

"_I won't let you die."_

"_I know…I trust you…"_

Peter pulled the trigger.

Chapter 2

The shock of impact shook Neal harder than he could have imagined or predicted. He staggered backwards until he tripped clumsily over his own feet and slammed against the cold concrete wall. Blood splattered behind him, which alarmed and reassured both him and Peter; the reassurance came from knowing the shot was sure, through-and-through – no bullet to dig out later. But seeing Neal's white linen shirt so quickly turn wet crimson made both men's stomachs turn.

Neal reached for the wound. Warm blood flowed quickly and turned cold and slick on his hand, coating his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a strangled gasp as the pain intensified.

Peter felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He lowered the gun and stared in disbelief.

"Neal…"

Neal managed something like a smile.

"Knew you could…" was all he could manage before he slid down the wall onto his rump.

Peter ran to him, pulled the C.I.'s shirt away to get a look at the wound. Clean round through the shoulder, just as he intended. No broken bones, no arteries nicked, no vital organs pierced. It didn't make him feel any better.

"How ya doing?" Peter asked shakily.

"Great," Neal said, trying to smile through gritting teeth, trembling.

"Yeah?"

"No…hurts like hell…"

"Sssh! They're coming."

"I should play dead."

"That would be prudent."

"You make sure you get Francesca, Peter. You put her away for good."

"Promise," said Peter.

"I may not have to play dead…I think…I think I'm gonna pass out…"

He did. Peter froze, but in a beat quickly checked Neal's vitals. His pulse was fast, but he was also breathing without trouble. If Peter could get this over with quickly, he could have Jones and Diana at the warehouse in mere minutes with an ambulance to get Neal out of there.

_But if Delacroix should linger…_

As if his thoughts had conjured her up, the office door swung open and three of Delacroix largest goons walked in, semi-automatics aimed at the vicinity of Peter's head. He stood quickly over Neal's prone body and went into undercover mode.

"It's over," he said to the goons. "Caffrey's dead."

Francesca walked in. She was wearing all white – her signature shade – and her shoes probably cost as much as a bureau agent's salary for a month. Or two.

Her violet eyes fell from Peter to Neal's unconscious form. She was expressionless as she walked over to him and poked him a few times with the pointed tip of her winter white shoes.

"You passed the test," she said to Peter. "Welcome to the family, Mr. Aubrey."

The name almost didn't register with Peter. Aubrey was a new alias created for this case alone.

"Call me Phil," Peter said, wrenching his eyes from Caffrey's bleeding body and shoving his weapon in the back of his pants.

She gestured to her goons, and two of the three approached Neal, reaching for him.

"What are you doing?" Peter said, trying not to sound too concerned.

"Their job. Disposing of the body," Francesca said.

"My kill, my responsibility. I got it all worked out."

"I appreciate your work ethic, Mr. Aubrey. But Mr. Caffrey was family. We take care of our own. And…I have another job for you."

The two goons shoved Peter out of the way and reached for Neal. Peter felt his heart beating faster, heard it as if it was now lodged solidly, hotly between his ears as they grabbed Neal and dragged him between him like so much garbage.

"Put him in the Lexus," she said. "Take it to the river. Dump it. When it washes up, it'll send a message."

Not reacting to Delacroix's command was the hardest bit of acting Peter ever had to do. In his flesh, he wanted to turn his gun on Delacroix's two goons and gun them down. Instincts bid him bide his time, let the situation play out. He knew an emotional choice is always ill-advised. Besides, it was three against one, and the three had much more fire power. It would be suicide, and Caffrey's sacrifice would be for nothing.

He could only watch as they carried Neal's limp form out of the office.

Peter counted on the fact that he could have them followed. One quick call to Jones and they could get satellite surveillance on them and intercept them long before they could manage to dump Neal into the river. Neal would be fine, he kept telling himself. _Neal would be fine._

_Unless Neal was dead already. _

The other fear that haunted him was this: What if Neal regained consciousness along the way? What if they notice his temperature was still that of the living, or could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed? What if they realized Neal was alive and they finished the job? Peter shook the terrifying thoughts from his mind; he had to get and keep his head in the game.

"So what's the new job?" Peter asked Francesca.

"You'll be contacted tomorrow. I'll have the details delivered to you by courier."

She turned to leave, but Peter stopped her.

"Hold on a sec. When do I get paid?"

"When the job's done."

"What about this job? It's done. What am I, running a tab? What kind of operation you got going here?"

Francesca smiled. "Patience, Mr. Aubrey. There's a briefcase in your car waiting for you. I'm sure you'll be more than a little surprised by my generosity."

Something about the way she looked at Peter made him want to shudder. He merely smiled back at her and headed out of the warehouse. As soon as he was out of sight he'd call Jones. It couldn't happen fast enough.

Francesca turned to her remaining goon. "Make sure Mr. Aubrey is at least a half a mile away before you detonate the brief case. I'd hate to have bloody bits and pieces of hit man on my new Louboutins," she said as she left, shoes clacking loudly on the cold concrete floor.

Neal was lying on the blood-slicked white leather back seat of a Lexus when he started coming to. He fought the urge to groan – somehow he was aware that he was still in some danger. He held his breath and fought to open his eyes.

Everything hurt, but the worst of it was a searing, throbbing spasm in his shoulder and chest. He dared not move, but looked up with glazed eyes to see two hefty sized men in the front seats. One whistled a Lady Gaga tune as he drove. The other rode shotgun with a Ruger resting on his ample lap as he devoured a sloppy sub sandwich. Lots of raw onions, Neal surmised by the piquant odor filling the interior of the vehicle.

_Along with the smell of his own blood._

This wasn't the way this scenario was supposed to play out. Where was Peter? Panic seized him. He thought he might vomit and held his breath, hoping he would not gag and give himself away. He felt pain ringing like a bell in his shoulder as he fought not to move. Was Peter's cover blown? Had they killed him? He had to act, do something. He couldn't just lay there and wait to see what would happen.

Ignoring the fire raging in the bloody, seeping hole in his body as best he could, he held his breath and reached slowly, as quietly as he could, for the Ruger resting on the Sandwich Man's lap.

Something was wrong. Peter felt it deep in his bones. Not only had he shot Neal and was now separated from him (he was seething with guilt and battering his himself with recrimination), but there was something else pulling at his attention, tugging at the back of his mind. He was grateful that he had fooled Francesca into believing he'd honored the contract, but he hadn't banked on Delacroix's men being given the duty of disposing of the 'body.'

The body…it's not a body if he's still alive. He's a man, a valued FBI asset. _His friend_. Not just a body. How could he have shot his friend? How could he have agreed to Neal's harebrained scheme? How in the world would he explain this to Hughes? To Mozzie? What was he going to tell Elizabeth at the end of the day? _"Great day, hon. I got the bad guys. And I had to shoot Neal."_

And this – climbing into his car, unwatched, unburdened by Francesca's constantly hovering goons, being given the go-ahead to leave – this was far too easy! The briefcase was beside him, on the passenger seat. He started the car and pulled away. In another block or two, he'd pull his secondary cell phone from under the seat and make the call to Jones that he prayed would save Neal.

That's when it hit him. _The brief case_.

The job was on the cheap, a paid audition - only ten thousand. Why not just put it in an envelope? Why this big metal brief case? He reached over to open it as he drove, but stopped short.

Neal had warned him about Francesca's pathological duplicity. It was right there in the bureau's file on her: She was known – allegedly – for disposing of outsiders. What if the brief case was somehow rigged? What if his place in her little mob was not as secure as he had been lead to believe?

Peter slammed the brake, rolled down the passenger window, grabbed the brief case and threw it out of the car, into an unused parking lot outside another abandoned warehouse, where weeds had long begun to push through cracks in the asphalt.

Tires screamed and rubber smoked and burned as Peter slammed his foot on the accelerator and drove away, then slammed the brakes again when he reached what he estimated was a safe distance to observe.

He looked through his rearview mirror and waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. The case sat still on the ground. Perhaps he was worried for nothing, just being overly cautious and paranoid and –

It exploded.

The impact was impressive – meant to do maximum damage. The gas tank would have done the rest, demolishing whatever the primary explosive missed. It took a moment for Peter to gather his wits and breathe again. The idea that he had nearly died shook him way down deep in his bones. He saw flashes of Elizabeth's tear streaked face at his own funeral, imagined his colleagues handing her a perfectly folded American flag, and shuddered.

Peter reached under his seat for his cell.

"Jones! I need satellite surveillance and all available units on the lookout for on a white Lexus SUV heading toward the river. I'm in pursuit. They've got Neal. He's been shot. He'll need a bus."

He didn't even hear Jones's response. He twisted the steering wheel and hit the accelerator hard, heading for the river.

No flag for Elle. Not today. And there would be no funeral for Neal. He would find him.

He put the vehicle in gear, tires screeching, and drove off in search of his friend.

Francesca was satisfied that her work was done when she heard the explosion echoing in the distance. She waited while her man opened the door of her luxury limo, and climbed in. She'd considered spending the rest of the day shopping for something black and sexy to wear to Neal's memorial.

As Neal reached with slow and deliberate care for the Ruger with blood-sticky fingers, he was startled by the chirp of the Driver's Blackberry. He quickly withdrew his hand, praying he had not been seen, that his suddenly movement had remained undetected.

"Yes ma'am," said the Driver.

Francesca's melodious voice emanated from the speaker. "Have you dumped Caffrey yet?"

"We're just about there. In about five minutes he'll be taking a swim."

"Good job, boys," she said. "Mr. Aubrey has also been taken care of. The explosion was quite satisfying. I'll meet you at the rendezvous in an hour."

The dizziness and cold that suddenly ran rampant through Neal, he was miserably certain, was not due to blood loss, but to hearing that Peter Burke was dead. He fought to control the shaking of his body, desperate not to draw attention to himself. But the knowledge of his friend's demise at the hands of Francesca Delacroix was enough to destroy his concentration, obliterate his resolve and ruin his own chance of survival if he allowed it.

He could not allow it. He owed it to Peter's memory to try.

He reached for the gun again.

His trembling hand bumped the elbow of Sandwich Man, who immediately sucked in a gasping breath and choked as a mouthful of barely chewed wilted lettuce, cold meat and onions became suddenly lodged in his throat. He turned red immediately, and veins bulged on the side of his head as he fought to breathe.

The gun slid from Sandwich Man's lap to the floor somewhere by his feet and woefully out of Neal's reach. The Driver turned to his choking cohort, and saw Neal moving.

What Neal did next, he could not have predicted or planned. It simply seemed somehow oddly appropriate.

"Boo," Neal said weakly.

Something like a scream – shrill and girlish in tone – escaped the Driver as he noticed that his dead cargo was dead no longer, and as he fought to save his friend, retrieve the gun and maintain control of the vehicle all at the same time.

Multi-tasking was, unfortunately, not is strong suit.

Before Neal could plan his next move, the vehicle collided into something hard, propelling his unsecured body forward and slamming him into back of the seats. The pain was jarring, nauseating and extreme. Then the world went black for what could have been a second or an hour.

When his eyes did open, he had an odd sense of calm. There was pain, but somewhere just below the surface of awareness. He decided not to waste time judging whether this was a blessing or a curse. Neal attempted to move. Nothing happened right away, his muscles were blatantly unresponsive. He started small, just moving a foot, then a leg. When he could pull himself up into a sitting position he could see what had so violently stopped the vehicle – a parked truck. The huge white transport vehicle appeared to have suffered little damage, but the front of the Lexus Neal was in was crushed and smoking.

Neal reached with his good arm and found the door latch. He fought with it, pushing, pulling, lifting, until the fractured mechanism finally obeyed him. Neal gave the door a push and slid out, falling to the ground. He lay there, feeling the pain from his wounded shoulder and the rest of his battered body creeping back upon him at an alarming rate. He fought to breathe deeply and managed to pull himself to his knees, and eventually to his feet. Neal leaned against the twisted vehicle and reached through shattered glass to check the on Delacroix's men. The Driver was unconscious but alive. Sandwich Man's body was too far away for Neal to determine his status.

He moved away from the car, forcing one leg to move after the other. Cool air assaulted his blood-wet skin. The wound ached hard. He cursed himself for not searching for the Driver's Blackberry or another gun, but feared he'd waste time going back. The best thing to do was to get as far away from Delacroix's men as possible.

He heard a car approaching and stopped. It could be help in the form of an innocent passerby, or it could be the police. For one fleeting moment he hoped it would be Peter. And then remembered…

He legs weakened and down he went upon his already aching right knee, further jarring the pain in his shoulder. Neal cried out and folded in on himself. Not just from the physical pain, but in anguished at the realization that his friend was dead.

The car was closer; he could hear it speeding his way. Neal forced himself back to his feet. He looked down at his shoulder and shuddered at the dark blood staining him, still seeping from his wound. He remembered the look on Peter's face when first Neal offered to literally take a bullet for team. That incredulous, fearful, perplexed look. There was great concern for Neal in the agent's eyes. Then trust, assurance. Neal knew that if Peter could have, he would have been there.

He imagined the agony facing Elizabeth, her inconsolable tears, her fight for strength. Would she ever forgive Neal for not saving Peter? He imagined the dubious looks from Diana and Jones – couldn't Neal have done something to protect their mutual friend and colleague? Would he be returned to prison to serve out the rest of his bid? Quite probably. And with all that time on his hands, he knew he would spend it regretting the loss of his friend, and how his misspent past had obliterated his future.

"I'm sorry, Peter," he said aloud as he straightened himself and stood waiting for the oncoming car to stop.

It didn't.

It was racing toward Neal at an alarming speed. It was going to hit him! Neal threw himself to the ground and rolled.

Tires screamed. The limo stopped. The armed chauffer stepped out and stood waiting anxiously as Francesca stepped out. She had a gun in hand, held downward as she took her time walking to where Neal lay on the ground unable to move, except to turn over onto his back. He would look his beautiful executioner in the eye.

"Neal…why can't you just die when I say so?"

"Maybe I'm not supposed to die, Francesca. Maybe you should give up, walk away while you still can."

She pulled the slide and aimed the weapon at Neal's heart.

"Why couldn't you just do the right thing? You had to steal from me, humiliate me, leave me. We could have been good together. Filthy rich, living phat. Breakfast in Paris today, lunch in Madrid tomorrow…you had to ruin it. Double cross me. Lie to me. Twice."

"That's what I do, Francesca," Neal said, unapologetically.

"And this is what I do."

Francesca moved to pull the trigger.

Neal could hear another vehicle approaching. No, several. Even if it wasn't the cavalry, perhaps someone would be aware enough to see his peril and call the authorities.

The limo driver nervously called out. "Ma'am?"

Francesca could not hear him. She was too focused on Neal.

"Before you kill me, Francesca, you should know something…"

"Not another lie, Neal…"

"The guy you blew up…Phil Aubrey…"

"What about him?"

"He was FBI…Agent Peter Burke. You killed a federal agent."

His words had the desired effect. She blinked. Francesca Delacroix actually looked to be afraid.

"You're lying," she spat.

"Ma'am!" called the limo driver again. "We need to go!"

"Don't interrupt me!" she screamed, then turned quickly and fired, putting a bullet in her driver's head. He fell hard to the ground.

She turned back to Neal, enraged.

Neal closed his eyes. He was dealing with a psycho.

"Agent Burke was my partner," said Neal nervously. "A good man. My friend. You can kill me…maybe you'll get away with it. But the FBI isn't forgiving when it comes to one of their own. You can skip the country if you want, but no one will give you succor. The bureau will find you. They will find you for what you did to my friend. And you will burn."

He could have sworn that the woman's gun-filled hand had begun to tremble, and that her perfect spa tan had faded by a shade or two. Francesca pursed her perfect red lips defiantly, raised a thick arched eyebrow, and smiled at Neal.

"At least I'll know you're dead."

BAM.

Neal jumped, eyes shut tight as pain spread about his body.

But it was from the bullet he had already taken earlier, not from Francesca's gun. He opened his eyes in time to see blood spilling from the place where Francesca's heart was, staining her winter white dress and dripping down onto her white Louboutins. The gun fell from her hand and she followed, landing hard across Neal's chest.

Neal cried out, in pain, in grief, in relief and confusion. The world became semi-dark, like chiaroscuro lighting in an old silent film, slowly iris-ing out to black. He felt Francesca's body being lifted from him, and felt warm hands against his cooling skin, checking his throat, his wrists for vitals.

"Neal…it's Jones! Can you hear me?"

He tried to answer, but his mouth refused to move, the words obstinately remaining in his mind. He could hear sirens, but could not tell if help was far or near.

"Come on, stay with us, Caffey."

That was Diana.

"Bus is seconds away," she continued. "Delacroix's dead."

"Peter…"

"I'm right here."

Neal's eyes opened wide. Was death causing him to hallucinate? Was his mind playing sinister tricks on him?

Peter stood above him, then squatted down close. "I'm right here, buddy."

He took off his leather jacket, folded it, then lifted Neal's head and placed the garment like a pillow for him to rest upon. Next, he placed his bare hands on Neal's entry wound to apply pressure, as it had begun to bleed anew.

"Hang in there," he ordered his young partner.

"Hey...I thought…"

"What did you think?"

"Bomb…" Neal grimaced and shuddered as another painful spasm rippled through him, and cold seeped from the asphalt through his clothing. "She said…"

"Yeah, your girlfriend tried to blow me up."

"Not my girlfriend…"

"Right. Sorry."

"Glad to see you," Neal said weakly, offering Peter an anemic smile.

"I wasn't sure you would be. Not after what I did to you."

"I told you to. Pretty accurate…uhn…God…it hurts…" He shook again.

"That's the last time I Iisten to you." Peter looked up at Jones and snapped, "Where the hell's that bus?"

"Turning the corner right now, Peter." Jones raced off, waving his arms to signal the ambulance driver closer.

Peter nodded thankfully then turned back to Neal.

"You're going to be all right, Neal. We're gonna get you patched up, and you're going to be fine. I promise."

Peter smiled, and moved quickly when the Paramedics urge him out of the way to work on Neal. Once his vitals were noted, his condition assessed, and I.V.'s were in place, they lifted Neal onto a gurney and strapped him in securely. He smiled when he noticed that Peter was beside him, helping to rush the gurney to the ambulance.

"You going with?" Neal asked; he was a breath away from unconsciousness.

"No, but I'll be there as quick as I can. Gotta finish up here. I will be there when you wake up."

"Good," whispered Neal. "Francesca...that was you…?"

"Yeah, I shot her. She was going to kill you. I had to."

"Nice…shooting, Butch."

"Thanks, Sundance. Do me favor, Neal…don't ever ask me to shoot you again. Okay?"

"That was…the last time…"

"Good."

The ambulance doors were closed, and the vehicle pulled off, sirens blaring loud enough to wake the dead. Peter expelled a deep, jagged breath of earnest relief.

Caffrey was alive.

The End.

_Hey! That's it! Thanks for your very kind attention, everyone. Just a quick story to end the year on a White Collar note, and to say HAPPY NEW YEAR! Would love to hear your thoughts, and thanks for all your wonderful and positive comments about my other stories, "Save Me If You Can" and "Find Me If You Can." Look for chapter 12 of "Save Me" On December 30__th__ and a new chapter of "Find Me" shortly after the New Year. Have a wonderful, creative, safe and happy 2012._


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